He's Suffering Too
by ameritastic
Summary: Alfred deals with suffering through the Cold War, and besides his people, Ivan is always perched somewhere in his mind. Warning: Alfred thinks about suicide


Alfred tilted the cigarette idly with his tongue, sticking a leg dangerously over the side of the railing that he currently sat on.

It was tempting, oh, it was so very tempting; but he couldn't fall, not when he had a country on his shoulders, and a stupid Russian that would win the war if he fell.

No, he wouldn't _die _if he fell, but it would certainly hurt his country and most likely have a major decline. He didn't know this, but he could guess. And if these guesses were correct it would basically just be welcoming the Russian in.

No, he wouldn't fall, but he wouldn't climb either. He'd stay where he was on that railing thousands of feet above freezing water. Stay with his cigarette perched in his mouth and breath in that searing warmth the put his mind at ease whenever he breathed, as if it was some alternative to the constant migraines from the war. No matter how stupid of a choice it was to smoke. He would stay with the many layers of jackets and sweaters huddled close to his body. He wouldn't move. If he moved his head would start hurting again. If he moved his muscles would creak under the pressure of being still for so long. He just wanted to stay up on that railing for the rest of the war and smoke his cigarettes until his pack was empty. He would sit and he would sit. He would think and he would yell into the wind. Yes, he would think. But he wouldn't think about the Russian that was on the other side of the Atlantic ocean. He wouldn't think about how they could have been on good terms. That before the Russian had become twisted with Communism, that maybe, just _maybe, _they could have been friends.

Maybe.

Alfred stuck his hand on the railing beside him to keep his balance and stuck both legs out over the side, rocking them back and forth.

Maybe Ivan regretted it; maybe he hated it. And that's why Alfred holds a little sympathy (Not that he would ever admit sympathy for the Russian brute), because it's not Russia's fault his citizens chose communism. But it was him and his bosses fault that they were at war (That's not entirely true, but Alfred decided it was mostly Russia's fault).

Alfred's boss had said it's also the way Russia and him act around each other, and the way their bosses act and their citizens act.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A neutral tone called. Alfred sighed and and pulled his legs under him and rested them on the twin double bar under the one he was sitting on.

"Don't worry, Kennedy, I won't fall." America sighed, pulling his cigarette out and tweaked it between his thumb and index finger. What would happen if he did fall? It wouldn't kill him; nothing could really kill him. But it would be painful. The fall itself would be bliss-would be like flying. But once he hit the thick, frozen ice, it wouldn't be as fun. He was confident the ice would break immediately under his weight and the force, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't be painful. He'd probably get cuts and broken bones. Maybe that would be nice, too. To feel the crack of his bones on impact, hear it through his spine and neck. To immediately then hit the freezing ice and lose any air he had in his lungs. For him to sink and hear the uncomfortable creak deep in his ears, of misplaced and jumbled bones and a slowing pump of blood through his body. Maybe that would be nice, too.

"But you won't climb, either," His boss stepped closer, his eyebrows furrowing.

Alfred sighed, positioning his elbow on his thigh and lazily setting his head in his hand. His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed as he flicked his tongue along the filter of his cigarette and watched the ashes fall of the tip of the other end.

Kennedy sighed and stepped up to the railing beside him, placing his hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"You aren't the only one who's suffering." He murmured empathetically, quiet enough so that only Alfred would hear, even though no one else was around. No one was ever around beside him. Him, perched on that railing like some owl, enjoying the quiet where his brain could either throb or thrive, where he didn't have to do any paperwork for a little while and just rest. He sat there like he _was _the only one suffering, but his body and mind told him day in and day out that he wasn't.

"I know, boss." Alfred sighed, straightening his back and running his hand through his hair.

"He's suffering too, Alfred." Kennedy's face softened when he came to the realization that Alfred was also worrying about not only his people, but if the Russian was okay. If the Russian had any regrets, or if he was sorry.

Alfred's face darkened a shade and he pulled the cigarette out and shoved it against the railing, putting it out with faked anger,

"I don't care about him." He murmured distantly.

His boss smiled knowingly and patted his shoulder, "Don't forget, you still have work to do." Kennedy turned and walked to wherever he had come from.

Alfred swayed his feet in thought for a couple of minutes before pulling them over the railing and hoping off.

Was Ivan suffering too?

Was he really?

Alfred snorted at the thought and shoved his hands deep in his pockets, walking to his car.

He could just imagine Ivan leaning on his off his own bridge, ready to jump at any moment, irritated with his people and with himself for being sucked in.

Of course Ivan was suffering.


End file.
